


reading between the lines

by naruhoe



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: & various others, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 18:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15869073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: A place for me to drop my random Dishonored ficlets.(Relationships and warnings are tagged at the beginning of each chapter. Tags will be updated as necessary.)





	1. can i keep it?

**Author's Note:**

> For the modern!AU. In which Emily is a tiny master of coercion, and Corvo can't say no. Enjoy!  
> (rated G for 'general'; no relationships apply)

Corvo's fairly sure that it's the ugliest cat he's ever set eyes on. The cat is a stocky, purring thing in his daughter's arms. Its long fur is matted into clumps, and one of its eyes is a milky, cataract grey, while the other is half closed in total relaxation as Emily strokes the length of its back again, hefts it higher up onto her shoulder, and says: "Can I keep it? Please, daddy? Please, please,  _please_ -!" Corvo eyes the feline with trepidation. 

"No." He says. He's putting his foot down. He just fixed up the apartment. No more slimy salamanders from the creek, no more goldfish swimming in listless circles around their tank. Nope. No fish, no reptiles, no amphibians, no dogs, and definitely,  _definitely_  no cats. He's not going to have his house smelling like cat litter, thank you very much. No dead animals on the metaphorical doorstep (which is just, in fact, a weather beaten mat on the landing). The only thing Corvo wants on  _his metaphorical doorstep_  is the newspaper. 

Emily's lip quavers. Corvo feels the guilt drop heavily into the bottom of his stomach like a sack of rocks, and he swears-  _he swears_  that the cat starts to purr louder. Why, it even has the nerve to butt its mangy head against Emily's cheek. What if it has fleas?? Emily sniffles softly, and Corvo drops down onto one knee.

"Honey," He begins, meeting those big brown eyes, "We don't know if he-" Corvo's eyes momentarily dart down to the ugly cat that's still purring on Emily's shoulder, apparently fine with being hauled around like a ragdoll. How are you supposed to tell what gender a cat is? "-it," Corvo decides after another indecisive glance at the creature, "has an owner." Highly unlikely, given the sheer amount of matting in the animal's fur, but he isn't going to tell Emily that. The cat, however, gives a particularly obnoxious purr (is it a cat or a matchbox engine??) when Corvo gently places a hand on Emily's shoulder, its one functioning eye lazily tracking the motion of Corvo's hand.

Again, Emily sniffles, squishing the rather large cat, which is easily half the size of her own body, closer to her chest as if it were her doll, Mrs. Pilsen. It's oddly fine with this, the tip of its tail flicking back and forth. Corvo squints at it suspiciously. "He looks so hungry, though..." Emily says sadly. Her lip wobbles again. No. No way. "I promise I'll take care of him and everything, daddy- please.?" Emily's eyes are positively huge, glistening with unshed tears. The cat takes this opportunity to let out a pathetic 'meow', proving Corvo's suspicions that they both were in on it the whole time. But it's too late. Corvo feels the last of his resistance shudder itself to pieces.

"...fine."

Emily squeals excitedly. The cat meows again, probably in reaction to being squashed, and looks plaintively to Corvo, but Corvo lets out a long-suffering sigh of the defeat he's come to be so intimately acquainted with, and does not lift a finger to help the creature. They're in this together now.


	2. blind date pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the modern AU. In which Daud is not amused.  
> (rated G for 'general'; relationships will soon apply)

Billie has been meddling again. Daud knows her scheming face like he knows the brand on the back of his hand, and he _knows_ she is definitely scheming. What he doesn't know, irritatingly enough, is _what_ she's scheming. So it's to his tremendous surprise when later that week, Thomas, of all people, sheepishly hands Daud his own phone (which he must have forgotten or lost or left lying about on his desk, as he's prone to doing), the rest of the whalers smiling a little too widely behind him for something not to be going on. Daud, glowering the whole time, swipes past the generic background to find... a picture of himself?

The photograph in question is of an exceptionally grumpy-looking Daud standing on the beach. He's wearing red swimming trunks and frowning up over the camera, making it even clearer that he hasn't taken this picture himself. But the longer he looks, he finds that it's a biography, actually, in the loosest sense of the word. A biography of himself, one 'Daud' with a kitchen knife pictograph (an emotiji, or something...) placed neatly next to the name, explaining his age, likes, dislikes, and... preferences? Daud feels his eye twitch. He looks up slowly, menacingly.

"What the hell is this, Lurk?" Predictably, Billie only smirks, looking smugger by the second. Daud directs his glare at Thomas instead, who laughs nervously when none of the whalers standing around him speak up. "Uh- surprise, sir!" Daud's scowl deepens ominously. Thomas, blanching, backpedals immediately. "Oh, um-" He stammers, "it's, you see, sir, it's-"

"It's a dating profile!" Rulfio interjects in a tone that suggests Daud should be excited. Daud is not. Someone wolf-whistles, and the rest of the whalers laugh and relax, adding their own voices to the sudden whispering that's started. Insolent pups- Daud ought to fire the lot of them, but then Rulfio's words register, and he's momentarily rendered speechless. The whispering gradually recedes back into silence when Daud fails to say anything. Of course Rulfio is the one to break it.

"A dating profile. You know- meeting people, getting out there? A little kissing here, a little nookie-nookie there- _oof_!"

To the palpable relief of most of the gathered whalers, Rulfio is cut off when Thomas elbows him in the ribs with perhaps more force than is strictly necessary. "What we're saying, sir," He says, blue eyes earnest, "is that maybe this could be good for you. There's no shame in letting loose once in a while, if you don't mind me saying." There's a small, murmured agreement from a few of the whalers. Lurk interjects, at this point: "If you don't mind me saying," Lurk parrots, "you've been tied up tighter than a bag of snakes this last month. What you do is your business, sir, but maybe this will help you- _unravel_ a few of those knots." Lurk  _winks_. In the back, Rulfio wolf whistles, and the sound echoes around the room.

Daud's gonna murder them all.


	3. little things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas may or may not have a bit of a hero worship complex.  
> (rated G for 'general'; no relationships apply)

Daud doesn't go out during the Fugue. Even as the men slip to and from base into lantern-lit Fugue nights and drizzly Fugue days, Daud remains. Sometimes, he's in his office, the window cracked to allow curls of smoke to filter out. Others, when the base has mostly emptied out into the streets, the man can sometimes be found tucked away in the kitchen brooding over a book and a grimy crystal tumbler of alcohol.

This is Thomas's tenth Fugue here in Gristol, and as he prepares to transverse out a half open window, dressed in workers' clothes and a pair of fingerless gloves that conceal the shadowy mark bruised into the back of his right hand, he hesitates, attention momentarily caught by the golden glow of light behind the third story office window that belongs to their leader. Thomas considers the light, head cocking thoughtfully, but a moment later, a whoosh of air leaves the windowsill the wayward whaler previously perched on bare.

Later that night, most of the men still roam the streets, though a fair few have returned to their beds, hungers sated until next year's Fugue. It's the final night of the Fugue, and only a few hours separate this brief intermission from the new year. Thomas slips through the window he left cracked half open, silence marred by the scuff of one stiff-soled shoe (far different than the supple leather of his assassin's boots) against the windowsill and the crinkle of the paper bag Thomas is carrying. 

Oddly enough, the lad bypasses the dormitory entirely, trudging up the stairs to the third floor in silence instead of a smooth transversal. Daud's office door is closed, and the whaler's rap of knuckles against the frame is at first met with silence. Thomas fidgets, face far too open now that there is no mask to hide behind, and doesn't quite manage to hide his expression when the door is suddenly pulled open. Daud scowls, looking a little discomfited at first by the civilian clothes before he fixes on Thomas's face.

"Done carousing already?" Daud asks dryly. 

Though the younger manages to school his features into a decently neutral expression, Thomas's ears pink. Of course they do. "Yes, sir." He answers obediently, and Daud just barely manages not to roll his eyes in exasperation. "Was there anything else?" Daud asks. In answer, he's presented with the brown paper bag Thomas had been carrying. Some sort of bottle, based on the shape, Daud notes absently, and tucks it under his arm.  

"Thank you, Thomas. Goodnight." Daud says with a nod, perplexed when the pink flush spreads from Thomas's ears down to his neck, where it's then concealed by the crisp collar of his shirt. 

"Goodnight, sir." Thomas pauses, blue eyes flickering up to meet Daud's. "Happy Fugue, sir."

Daud does not hear Thomas's footsteps on the stairs after he shuts the door. Probably transversed. Daud lights a cigarette before he opens it, standing by the window where he can see the glow of the streets. The paper crinkles beneath his fingers as he pulls it off.

'Padilla Pear Soda' It reads. Bemused, Daud feels an unexpected wave of nostalgia crash over him as he runs a thumb across the pear motif adorning the neck. Thomas has brought him a pear soda. Daud can't remember the last time he's had a pear soda. It was a popular enough drink in Serkonos when he was growing up, but Daud hasn't thought about his childhood home in years, much less pear soda. It's an unexpected gift, to say the least, and yet...

That year, Daud watches the dark sky lighten into the first gray Dunwall dawn of a new year with the taste of pear soda on his tongue and an odd lightness in his heart.


	4. dropping eaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author plays around with OCs. A character study.  
> (rated G for 'general'; no relationships apply.)

The Bottle Street gang isn't just thugs. Just mostly thugs. Everyone knows the type: big, rough men with big, rough hands who'd sooner sock you in the jaw than look at you twice. But the Bottle Street gang- they aren't all thugs. Slackjaw himself can be a right gentleman ( _when he's in the mood..._ ). There's Garrick who feeds the stray cats that follow him around for that very reason. Evelyn, the elderly woman who's missing an eye and most of her teeth, can whip up a delicious bowl of hot soup from damn near anything. The Bottle Street gang, though- they're mostly thugs. Ain't no way around it. Chambers is only too aware of this fact.

He's a runner boy, Chambers is. He's light, and he's fast, trusted with delivering messages and occasional crates of elixir to Slackjaw's contacts around the city. It's a dangerous job, but perhaps no more dangerous than any of the other jobs Dunwall has to offer. Chambers would take it over river crusts any day of the week. The perks? A ration of elixir to get him through the week, and a grimy, but relatively undisturbed place to curl up at night. There’s also the off chance of getting arrested by the City Guard, or being slaughtered by a rival gang member, or even worse, catching the plague. Chambers makes the best of it.

He isn't stupid enough to think he's safe, though. Not here, in Bottle Street, nor the Abbey, which Chambers visits ritually twice a week to kneel in front of the plaques of the Seven Strictures; not even his boltholes- a dank cellar down Bloodox, a little place where two roofs intersect where Chambers stashes any elixir he can spare.

No, you'd be a fool thrice over to think that you're safe anywhere in this dying city. That's how it gets you. Maybe you chance a shortcut down a street you thought abandoned. Rat food. Maybe you rush the job and run smack into a guard patrol. Prison bait. Or maybe you look the wrong someone in the eye. If Chambers knows anything, he knows that the Bottle Street gang doesn't take kindly to being looked at wrong. Or so says the new chip in his front tooth. 

It's one of those days, the rainy, drizzly, miserable kind. Stuck outside watching the street, he can't keep his hands warm. Absently tonguing the newly-jagged edge of his front tooth, Chambers shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. Elixir has been delivered for the week, and he has the remaining half of his ration safely tucked into the inside _inside_ pocket of the threadbare coat he wears beneath his jacket. He's hungry- _always hungry_ -so it isn't long before the daydreams fill his head. 

 _...bloodox roast with fragrant gravy, fresh bread, a pilfered apricot tartlet..._ The loud rumble of Chambers' stomach is hidden by the sudden, sharp 'fwip!' from above, like the wind whipping at clothes hung up to dry. 

Chambers, filled with curiosity despite his best efforts to suppress it, edges up onto the dumpster pushed up against the wall and pokes his nose up over the ledge. Terror fills his heart at the sight of two crouched figures atop the previously empty roof, hooded and masked in what he recognizes through his alarm as whaling gear. Sharp, crosshatched blades hang from their belts. The sight of those blades sends Chambers' poor heart into a fit of terror, and it pumps a fresh surge of adrenaline into his veins. These men are dangerous! Chambers recognizes the sight of them from the gossip he sometimes hears from the others, spoken in the shadows in hushed whispers. Gossip about the Knife, and his gang of supernatural assassins that dress in whaling gear just like the uniforms worn by these two. Mercifully unnoticed, he sinks back down against the rough brick of the wall, squeezes his eyes shut, and prays. He prays to all the gods he knows, and then sends a hasty prayer to the Outsider. For good measure.

"Progress?" 

"Pendletwins have been at the Cat all week. Heavily guarded."

"And the girl?"

"Alive. The whores care for her."

"Good. Campbell will visit tomorrow, if routine is reliable."

There are bootsteps on the roof. A tile shifts above his head, and whatever meager comforts that Chambers had built up evaporate on the spot. The wall is cold, leeching the heat from his body where he's pressed up against it, but he doesn't dare move. His breaths are too short, too quick, but still blessedly silent. Surely they will see him now! They will see him, and then it'll all be over! It's so unfair- he even avoided the plague, and now.. and now- Chambers digs his nails into the palms of his hands. He needs to calm down. So he begins to recite. _Restrict an errant mind before it becomes fractious and divided..._

"Tonight, then, is when we must act."

"Yes." They hesitate to say more, and Chambers' ears strain at the sudden silence. His jagged tooth digs into his lip as he bites it, and he half wonders if it will split. He wonders if the assassins will smell his blood, then, if they will come for him, like sharks after a wounded calf. Errant mind, errant mind...  _Can two enemies occupy the same body? No, for the first will direct it one way, and the second another, until they stumble into a ditch and its neck is broken._ "Our master-" The voice says, and they sound less confident than before. "-he seems..."

"Conflicted." The other finishes, and the tiles of the shallow ledge that shelters Chambers creaks alarmingly, no doubt accommodating the weight of another body. "Ever since the Empress..." A quiet laugh, more a sardonic chuckle than anything else, punctuates the silence. "He is not the killer I thought him to be." The other snorts as well. "Can we blame him? After the Empress, everything got worse. Can you remember the last time you ate something that did not come out of a can? Before, the smugglers would still bring their wares. Now even they do not dare breach the blockade."

A sigh. "A pity. What I wouldn't give for some fresh venison, now. They could make a fortune, you know."

The other snickers. "Agreed."

Chambers tries so hard not to listen, but to hear these two speaking so _normally_  surprises him. Some part of him scoffs at that. Better be afraid than empathize with these heretics, it says, but the thoughts seize him and won't let him go. Beneath the masks and the whaling uniform, they are flesh and bone, just the same as Chambers. They eat, and they drink. They could even catch the plague, Chambers thinks, morbidly. But then, the tiles creak again, and this time, his lip does split, oozing coppery blood. Contrary to his previous fears, the two do not give any sign that they've smelled it. "We act tonight." One says. Chambers believes he has imagined the warmth that previously filled it, for there is nothing now but professional distance. 

"Be ready."

"And you."

Twin whooshes fill the air, and the roof no longer creaks. Just in time, too, for Chambers' knees give out from under him a second later. He slides silently to the filthy alley floor, uncaring of the damp that creeps into the seat of his pants from the scraps of rubbish that line the ground. He has only one thought in his head. The Bottle Street Gang might be mostly thugs, but at least they aren't thugs of the supernatural sort. Flesh and bone, they might all be, but the empty roof above his head speaks volumes about the different worlds that different men inhabit. Sucking his split lip, Chambers tilts his head back against the wall, and recites the last line of the Seventh aloud:

"Likewise, two contrary thoughts cannot long abide in a man's mind, or he will become weak-willed and subject to any heresy."


	5. rudshore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whaler OCs!  
> (rated G for 'general'; no relationships apply.)

"..and did you know they have a word for pushing someone 'outta window?? No- c'mon, Serge, just hear me out! It's ' _defenstration_!"

A rustle of clothing followed by a sharp yelp.

"Ow! That  _hurt_ , you-"

A new voice, baritone with hints of a Morley brogue: "We're 'sposed to be on patrol, you moron. Keep it down."

A pause.

"and it's  _defenestration_."  

Regis sheepishly massaged the crown of his head, blue eyes glaring resentfully up at the other's masked face. It seemed as if the boy intended to speak again, but a perfectly timed cough from his partner set him right back to scowling.

"Put your mask back on, boy."

Regis' chest puffed up at that, his face becoming the visage of affronted pride. "I'm 17!" He contested hotly, but nonetheless, his fingers fumbled at the clasps, and with more effort than the gesture was probably worth, he finally managed to pull the mask back over his head, mussing his hair horribly. Now that the mask was on, it was near impossible to tell whether he was 17 or 40. The boy had vanished, replaced by a lanky figure clad in dark leather, a gas mask in place of their face. The bandolier strapped around their chest ran crookedly across one shoulder, and the flap of one of the numerous pouches attached to their person was half open.

A muffled: "...it's hot in here." prompted the taller of the two to clap his comrade on his too-skinny back. 

"Get used to it."

***

"Attempt a transversal." 

Jeann winced, glad for the layer of protection his mask afforded him as the recruit lurched into an unsteady transversal. Clearly a case of first evaluation nerves, but still enough to be sent back to training for another month. Rookie mistakes, like sloppy transversals, got squad members killed, and more significantly, tarnished their reputation. This was not allowed. Jeann  _would not_  allow it.

_CRACK! **CRASH**!_

Jeann's swear echoed through the compound.

***

"I heard Jamison's cooking tonight."

Something that sounds suspiciously like a muttered swear; then the sound of someone spitting off to the side.

"Jamey can't cook! What's Rulfio doing putting 'im on the ledger again??"

"Dunno. Probably because, y'know... Liam.."

A sigh. When the other speaks, if seems his voice is slightly gruffer. "Yeah."

Two leather clad figures are crouched on the edge of a building. One tall and gangly, the other a hair shorter, The taller of the two has a bundle of what look to be bolts in their hand under the pretense of checking the fletching, bolt by bolt. The other looks out over the city, their arms crossed statuesque.

At this time of day, the view of Rudshore is a spectacular one. Here, there are no streets to be had, but the scummy canals reflect the dying sunset. A large patch of water glows an unnatural blue-white. The tainted whale oil that has risen to the surface would burn for hours if ignited. Looming from the waters, the buildings are stained with lines showing where the floodwater has receded. Surrounding, separating, are great, steel barriers. The Rudshore Financial District opens only to the sea now. Hagfish swim along its streets below the layer of green scum, and yet, the rats crowd on floating bits of debris; they scamper along the walkways left untouched by floodwater; their bodies float amid the scum. The rats are everywhere.

Just two years ago, Rudshore was alive with the bustle of business, the sound of footsteps; the clamor of human voices. This place, this silent, unlivable place is the Flooded District, and it is not a place for the living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all of your comments and kudos! Thanks so much for even reading! I know it's boring without the relationship tag, so thank you so much again if you've bothered to read this far!


	6. smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian has run out of cigarettes.  
> (rated G for 'general'; Cassian/Jeann.)

Dunwall was cold. Even the nobility had the good sense to wear heavy coats atop their frippery during those cold, winter months. The common folk wore layers of clothing. An undershirt, long socks, sturdy pants made of heavy, wind-blocking material, a jacket with a high collar, a cap. Some wore gloves, and others wrapped scarves about their necks to keep the bitter wind from blowing down their backs. 

Of course, when the summer months rolled back around, the jackets disappeared, replaced by raincoats and umbrellas. It was prone to raining, here in Dunwall. Summer, fall, or winter, it didn't matter. It was just the temperature that changed. 

At this point, Jeann considered himself an expert on such rain. There was freezing rain, the worst kind, that soaked through your leathers into your bones. There was tepid rain, not unlike the communal showers, neither hot nor cold. There was the eternal drizzling, and the deluges that were all too frequent during monsoon season. Rarely was the sun out long enough to dry the moisture that collected on rooftops and dripped down windowpanes.

Jeann leaned forward on his elbows, peering into the smoggy, Dunwall sky. Tonight was a treat, one of those rare, dry nights. A ribbon of smoke drifted from the cigarette dangling from the man's long fingers. His figure was relaxed; hands ungloved and curled loosely around the rail of the balcony.

Jeann was an oddity among the Whalers in that he was nobility, and Serkonan nobility at that, hailing from an entirely different isle than the majority of the men, with the notable exclusion of Daud. He held a sort of infamy among the others for exactly this reason. It shouldn't have mattered. The man was a hard worker, an excellent swordsman, and had an immaculately groomed mustachio to boot, but his nobility was glaringly obvious in his every demeanor, from the way he spoke to the set of his shoulders as he walked. In a perfect world, it wouldn't matter. But the fact remained that Jeann had precious few friends among the whalers, most of whom would sooner brave a swarm of rats than trust him.

"What's a girl like you doing in a nice place like this?" A rasping voice suddenly spoke. 

Jeann breathed out a lungful of smoke, tapping the cig against the railing. "Smoking." His accent gave the word a playful lilt.

Footsteps from behind, and a masked figure leaned up against the balcony next to Jeann. Their body was angled toward the noble, head tilted at a jaunty angle. Attentive. "Do a friend a favor, and share the wealth. Come on." They gestured impatiently at the cigarette between Jeann's index and middle fingers.

Jeann took another draw of the cigarette instead. He held the it in until it began to burn, then exhaled the cloud of smoke, watching it drift across the other's gas mask. The smoky air smelled a little less of the waterfront, and more of tobacco. "I can hardly believe that you finished yours already." He said dismissively, turning again to the waterfront where his profile, thin, sharp- _aristocratic_ -was illuminated by the jaundiced overhead light a dying streetlamp provided.

The other huffed and, without flourish, pulled off their mask, fixing Jeanne with a shrewd glare. The face that greeted the Dunwall night was not a beautiful one. The nose was hawklike, the cheekbones a little too prominent, the eyes narrow and flinty grey. The temples of that face were dotted with pock marks, and a thin, puckered scar ran across the corner of the mouth. Another scar appeared over the bony ridge of his jaw. If one were to follow it with their eyes, they would see that it continued down below the collar of his uniform. This was the face of a survivor, the face of someone who had weathered their share of what life had to offer, and then some. It was lean, and hungry, and the eyes glinted with intelligence.

"Come on, Jeann— don't be such a hardarse..."

Jeann thoughtfully rolled the cigarette between his fingers. "If you are so desperate, what is it you'll give me in return, Cassian?" 

It was no sooner than the words had left his mouth that a mouth pressed against his own. Cassian chuckled earthily at the surprised noise Jeann made, and proceeded to nip impudently at the swell of his lower lip. On instinct, the noble opened his mouth, half knowing what Cassian intended next. The man's tongue darted out, grazing over where he'd nipped at Jeann's lip as if it were an apology, and fingertips grazed the stubble of Jeann's jaw, Cassian's lips pulling into a smile against the other's open mouth as Jeann seemed to press into the proferred affection, his breath hissing out against Cassian's skin.

It was over all too soon, Cassian was the first to pull away, avoiding Jeann's surprised stare. There was silence for the space of two breaths.

Then, a rustle of clothing broke the silence as Jeann braced his elbows against the railing once more. "The way I see it, you still owe me." The noble said, extending the remnants of his cigarette.

Cassian grinned like a fox as he took the cig from Jeann, bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag. A ring of cherry red traveled up the stub of the cigarette, halting millimeters away from Cassian's gloved fingers. He breathed out a plume of smoke, eyelids shuttering halfway, euphoric, erotic.

"I'll pay you back, Jeannie-boy." Cassian sighed, still grinning lazily. He dropped the cigarette butt onto the damp rooftop, grinding it into a puddle with the heel of his boot as he turned to go. "You'll see." Cassian saluted cheekily. There was a flapping sound, like that of wings, or canvas in the wind, and Cassian was gone, transversed away.

"I should hope so." Jeann murmured to the empty air, and turned back to the image of the waterfront.


End file.
